We Set Fire to Our Homes
by The Silver Trumpet
Summary: "A thousand emotions are written in her eyes. Fear. Anger. But also there is a certain tenderness with which she regards him and a certain hunger with which she fervently attacks his lips again." Maleval, contains lemon. One-shot.


**A/N: Day one for Maleval NSFW week. Prompt: first time. I wasn't actually planning on participating in this in favor of finishing Neighbors, but it demanded to be written. :3 I don't know if I'll be writing any more of the prompts for this week, but if I do, I'll be sure to post them here! :)**

Diaval can't believe any of it had happened. It had gone by so fast, all of it. There'd been the christening, and the curse, and that bastard king begging (he'd reveled in that as much as she had), and now he is holding her. He doesn't understand completely, but he does in a small way. She loves the king, and she hates herself for it, and he doesn't completely understand that. But he understands that, if he knows love, he knows it for her. Tears track down her cheeks and drip onto his shirt. She's shaking. "Mistress?" he whispers, wanting to ensure her wellbeing. "Are you going to be alright?" he asks. He doesn't ask if she's alright now because he knows she's not.

Almost of its own accord, his hand swipes a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Her eyes are red-rimmed from the tears she's shed, but she appears to have finally finished the show of waterworks she so aptly demonstrated earlier. The emerald orbs fall closed, and she doesn't answer him for a very long time. He shifts her in his lap and leans to kiss her forehead. Then, tenderly, he wipes away the newest proof of her heartbreak with his thumb. Raggedly, she begins to speak, "I am sorry." Sorry for what, he knows not, but he does not question. "It was wrong of me to force you to participate in such a heinous act."

So that is it. She thinks he was disturbed by the curse placed on the princess. Quite the contrary. While he wishes they could've tortured the king to death, he knows that that would hurt his mistress far too much, so he settles with something else. It works just as easily, he thinks. "I was unbothered, mistress. I support your actions." Of course he supports her; he would follow her to the ends of the earth if she so desired. If he could, he would offer her his wings in the most literal of senses. But he senses that she meant more than that simple statement, and he falls silent. In his arms, she is warm and soft. So beautiful. Her head rests on his shoulder. He can't help himself; he plants a quick peck on her cheek.

She traces her fingers about the open neck of his shirt where the scars rippled freely beneath her. She doesn't complain about his intimate actions in the slightest. He wonders if she minds at all, or if she likes that he is being more affectionate than usual, or if she's in too much pain to care. Her eyes open to slits for just a moment, and he peers into them. She closes them again, and her hands close into fists. "I still love him." Her voice is a thousand bitter emotions. Rage, bitterness, cold. He knows she can't tell him everything. "I hate myself for it. How can I still love him?" Then, so softly he almost doesn't hear, she whispers, "I wish he would have killed me. I wish he wasn't too much of a coward to kill me."

Diaval hates these words. He hates them with every fiber of his being because she is his _everything_, wings or none. She is the reason he awakens in the morning and the reason he is often sleepless at night. He draws her face into his hands, and her eyes open in surprise. She doesn't have enough time to pull back; he is far too quick for that. His lips catch hers.

Soft. Sweet. Delicate as strawberries. Yes, yes, she tastes like strawberries, but also like something else, something darker and sultrier, something that he doesn't think belongs to a food at all. Wild as the blackberries. Tangy as the oranges. She is everything he has ever wanted. She is beautiful and strange and wonderful. She is no fairy; she is a goddess. Silver skin glowing under the rising moon, he wonders how anyone has ever been under the premise that she is a fairy. No mere fairy could be as sweet or as soft or as warm or as utterly ethereal as she is now. Breaking the kiss, he huskily murmurs, "I am very glad that he did not kill you, mistress."

He fears for a moment that he has scared her, pushed her away irreparably, but then she melts herself against him. Her breasts massage his chest. His lower abdomen feels awash with things he has never known before—arousal hardens him. She places a purposeful hand on him, and it presses warmly against his chest. He knows she can feel his heartbeat. A thousand emotions are written in her eyes. Fear. Anger. But also there is a certain tenderness with which she regards him and a certain hunger with which she attacks his lips again. He feels her begin to reach under his shirt. His flesh flushes beneath her touch. He is _hers_; he is her servant and she is his mistress. He will be whatever she needs him to be, and if she needs him to be this, he is _more_ than happy to oblige. She pushes him down, and he softly moans when those fingers trail fire over his lower abdomen. He can feel himself unfolding, elongating, straining against his undershorts.

Unable to restrain himself any longer, he reverently begins to run his hands over her. She is so beautiful and real on top of him. He takes in the view of her flushed face and heated eyes and swollen lips and stray hairs gone wild from her wrap. His hands wander up her sides and stroke her breasts. Then, with all the deference of a slave before his creator, he reaches up to tear free her long, beautiful dark locks. They spill untamed over the two of them. His hands tangle there and pull her deeper into their kiss. His urges are strange, not at all birdlike but instead completely and totally those of a human man. And for the first time in his life, he is completely okay with that.

Her tongue probes at his lips. For a few moments, he is confused and keeps his lips closed. She squeezes his rump, and he gasps, and she shoves her tongue in between his lips. He understands now as he licks at her. She tastes so good, so sweet, so passionate. With another hand, he finds her breasts and gropes one. She shudders against him, and he reaches beneath the hem of her shirt. He wants to know what they feel like without the clothing barring them away from him. She fists one hand in his hair. The other tugs incessantly at his shirt. Then, breathlessly, she breaks away. "Take it off. Take off your shirt." She jerks it up, and he lifts his arms. The scarred torso revealed to her does not frighten her away as it might have another, and she takes care to ghost her fingers over each of his tiny hurts.

He doesn't dare to verbally demand the same from her, but he snatches at the hem of her shirt, and his eyes plead with her. She lifts her arms. He tears it free with a fresh eagerness, only to hear the fabric rip across her horns. He drinks in the view of her milky skin, but there is still a frustrating layer of clothing between him and her breasts. He reaches behind her; he's seen this garment on human women before. He grabs at the hook, but not before his warm hands brushes feathery stumps. She gasps, and her face contorts. The fluidness of her muscles goes suddenly stiff, and he finds himself kissing her heatedly in an attempt to relight the passion within her. She reciprocates slowly, and gentle hands play around the buckle of his pants. Deftly, she unbuttons them and drags them down. He kicks them free and he yanks her brassiere off.

The sight of her milky breasts makes his mouth go dry. She is so beautiful. He grabs her and flips them around, pinning her beneath him. Animal urges drive him as he nips and sucks down her body. Showing no bit of hesitation, he takes one pebbled nipple into his mouth. "Ah!" she cries. Her claws dig into his back. Smirking, he swirls his tongue around it. She fidgets beneath him. He can feel her asking him for more. He drags his teeth over the space between her breasts. She moans. "Diaval, please…please…" Delicate hands firmly grasp the waistband of his undershorts and snatch them down, revealing him completely. "Need you."

He reverently kisses to her mound of curls. The hair there is wiry and scratchy, a different texture than her regular tresses, but they feel pleasant against his face. He nuzzles his nose where her lips split. "You smell so good," he murmurs into her. He rasps his tongue over her round, hidden pearl, and she makes a noise he never had expected would rise from her lungs, let alone for him. He does it again. She grabs fistfuls of his hair and pushes him deeper into her sex. He licks and sucks and swirls his tongue until she's trembling about him with her legs wrapped around his neck.

He draws himself up, and though he doesn't remove her legs from him, he moves up her, positioning himself on top of her. His left arm he uses to support himself, placing it beside her head. Eyebrow raised in a silent question, he waits until she nods. His right hand takes his shaft and places it just outside her slit. He slides it up and down her until she is wriggling and whimpering. He can see the utter desire within her. Animal nature takes control of him. He thrusts into her forcefully. Her muscles constrict; she is almost too tight for him to move. She cries out in a pained voice, and her nails rake over his back hard enough to draw blood. It feels so good. He wants to keep moving into her, but he doesn't. Not until she's comfortable. "Mistress?" he whispers.

"Give me a moment," she returns through gritted teeth. He nods and plants tender, ghosts of kisses across her jaw and neck in the hope of distracting her from the pain he knows he has caused. As he nips her earlobe, she offers him a rare smile. Her hips shift beneath him, and he watches her grimace. He doesn't dare move despite the wonderful sensations that burst through him at her movements. She rotates her hips slowly, experimentally, and though she still appears pained, she nods to him. "Go on."

He obeys, sliding deeper into her slowly. He plants kisses to her face, to her lips, and he rests his nose under her chin just so his breath could fan over her. She digs her nails into him, but she still nods to him again when he hesitates. He pulls out of her and pushes back in, going a little faster when she didn't discourage him. A hand finds its way between their bodies and massages her mound. She whimpers and shudders in ecstasy. Her walls, so slick and tight, feel like they are about to constrict. He picks up speed with a gasp. His ministrations on her sex drive her over the edge, and she tosses her head back, releasing a strangled shout of pleasure.

But he doesn't stop. He isn't ready. There is something grand building in this foreign body of his, and he wants to know what it is; he wants to see its presence made known. So he keeps massaging her clitoris. His movements inside her only increase their speed. She pants heavily, mouth hanging open. He attacks her open lips with his. Eyes barely drawn into slits, she wraps her arms tightly about him, and he can feel her holding herself to him in preparation for what she knows is coming. He thrusts faster and more forcefully. She crushes herself against him. "Faster," she encourages. "Harder." Noises rise from her throat as he obeys, and he finds himself growing ever nearer to his climax. He is ready for it, ready to ride it out, but he wants her to do it with him. He wants her to come along with him.

He doesn't have long before he can't hold out much longer. She is slick and wet, thighs dribbling with her liquid, and he is unable to hold back. "Mistress, mistress!" His body quakes all over. "I'm going to, I'm—" She silences him by pulling his lips down to hers. Her legs won't go still and they flounder about, unable to find a grip on their sweat-slicked bodies. Then her walls are so tight about him. She bites his neck hard to keep in her shrieks of ecstasy. He isn't as silent. "_Maleficent!_" he yells. His limbs give out, and he collapses on top of her, all heaving chests and exhausted bodies. "Mistress," he murmurs.

She is immobile for a long few moments before her closed eyes open to tiny slivers of glittering emeralds. "Diaval?" she questions, the emeralds soaking him in. He offers her a small smile and snuggles closer to her, resting his head on her chest. "Thank you," she whispers. Diaval, her most loyal servant, her closest of friends. Always whatever she needs.

"I love you, mistress," he susurrates, brushing a sweaty strand of hair behind her ear. From another being, those words might have scared her, but from him, they are comfort enough to coax her into sleep, her transgressions of the day long forgotten.


End file.
